Major Taylor

by Conrad Kerber

  First a racer, then a manufacturer, Munger had dedicated himself so enthusiastically to bicycles it was as if he was deficient without them—an affliction not uncommon at the time. “Munger,” wrote one cycling historian, “lived, ate, talked, slept, and breathed bicycles.”

  When he wasn’t on the road peddling his racing bike to dealers nationwide, Munger would stroll into various shops along Indy’s bicycle row to mingle with other wheelmen. Though his bittersweet legend preceded him, he was a big enough star to become a hero in the eyes of many who gathered there. On a day in 1893, he stumbled into H. T. Hearsey’s Bike Shop. With his winning percentage dropping to a woeful level, perhaps he was already thinking about training or managing aspiring young riders.

  He couldn’t help but stare at him. Munger was roaming Harry Hearsey’s Bike Shop, probably trying to smooth-talk old Harry into placing another order for his racing models, when a reedy black kid strutted around the training room with a riding talent and composure that belied his youth. Customers looked on inquisitively. Each time Munger returned to the shop, the same smooth black face, the same underfed look piqued his curiosity. When he had time, Munger watched the youngster’s surprisingly seamless interaction with both black and white customers. There’s something about this kid, he thought. If Munger had already been thinking about race managing or finding a rider to lead a future cycling team for his company, he could not have stumbled upon a more unlikely prospect than little Taylor.

  Practically speaking, Taylor was everything that an 1890s race manager would have run away from. Unlike road racers, short-distance track racers often carry extra brawn for the requisite fast-twitch explosiveness, especially in their meaty thighs and sturdy upper bodies. Physically, Taylor was still a runty speck of a kid, with spindle-shanked legs and round, protuberant knees—seemingly a lesson in frailty. His upper body was a poignant continuation of his lower—short, slight, toothpick arms, flairless back, and puny shoulders no wider than his waist. When he showed up at bike tracks, trainers surely thought he was lost, pointing him to the horse track where all the like-sized black jockeys converged at the time. Given his diminutive size, one wouldn’t think Taylor would ever possess the leg or lung power to blow out a candle, much less compete with international sprint giants. Sure, he could grow into it, but neither his circumstances nor his bloodlines seemed to suggest future greatness.

  Without prosperous parents or any real money of his own to help defray extensive travel and equipment costs, Taylor would be a risky investment. And to top it all off, he was black. At that moment in American history, few managers would have had any interest in someone like Major Taylor other than as a servant or a low-paid manual laborer. No “darkey,” one race reporter wrote, had ever amounted “to a pinch of snuff in the racing game.” Major Taylor and all his worldly ambitions would have been viewed by virtually everyone as a hopeless cause, especially those who were calling him a little “pickaninny,” a highly offensive term that was then used to describe throwaway black kids.

  Everyone, that is, except Louis D. “Birdie” Munger. If Taylor possessed unseen attributes ripe for elite track racing, Louis Munger had the mind of a prophet, saint, or both.

  On a day in 1893, he and Taylor came face-to-face. The two stood on opposite ends of the racing spectrum. Munger was a refuge from the vanishing world of high-wheelsmen who had been squeezed out; Taylor was a boy hoping to blaze trails on the new safety bikes, moving bravely forward with the eager, naïve eyes of youth. Munger was trying to pave the nation’s tracks with the tread of his new racing machine; Taylor was dreaming of the day when he could ride on those same tracks atop such a bike. Munger had the wisdom and the machine; Taylor had the determination and, perhaps with endless schooling, the engine.

  From skills honed over a decade of viewing other riders, Munger had developed a knack for finding hidden talents and rare qualities in people. Spending as much time at Hearsey’s shop soaking up the local flavor as he did his own company, Munger was impressed with the vibrant, young Taylor as he gave lessons in the store’s custom riding school. He first noticed his inherent skills with a bicycle that despite its dominance at Hearsey’s was still an awkward new possession for folks. He was also impressed with Taylor’s work habits and inquisitiveness; the boy constantly drilled him with questions on bike racing tactics and the latest trends in racing bikes.

  The two slowly formed an unlikely friendship away from Hearsey’s. Taylor followed Munger to races, begging him to let him try out his latest racing bike. Munger eventually obliged, and the two wheelmen rode together on Indy’s hilly scapes lined with oak trees, enjoying the competition as much as the companionship. While younger riders were often too aggressive, blowing through their physical reserves like jackrabbits early in a ride, Munger conveyed a calming presence. He taught Taylor that the strongest man can lose to the most cunning. He instructed Taylor how to conserve his energy and control his emotions while feeding off his opponents’ aggressiveness. Taylor had a tendency to obey the bike’s mechanical imperatives, its instinctive quest for perpetual motion. Using the all-important technique of drafting behind rivals to cut down on wind resistance—a technique that can save 30 percent of a cyclist’s energy—Munger taught Taylor to restrain himself early on and then unleash his fastest sprint at the finish.

  When on the tracks, Munger taught Taylor to weigh the unique angles, surfaces, speeds, and propensities of each individual one. He would have told him to build dossiers on his competitors—slow starter, fast closer, hugs the pole, loves the rail—and track the subtleties of each race like wind direction and the best spot to begin his sprint. He schooled in him the import of proper eating habits, and most importantly, to stay away from alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, and cigars—all used in mass quantities at the time. Always a willing student, Taylor didn’t just listen; he heard.

  Sharing years of invaluable insight into the secrets of racing, Munger was amazed at the relentless pace Taylor kept on their rides, sometimes even challenging his more experienced form. Initial thoughts of becoming a manager-trainer began to percolate. And as Taylor’s endurance and pace improved after nearly every outing, it appeared as if the young lad speeding alongside him might be a good, albeit trouble-bound pupil. But Munger wasn’t above having considerable fun at Taylor’s expense. On one occasion, he and a few riding buddies got him to bleach his pitch-black hair inside a velodrome locker room. “We will bleach you and make you white,” joked Munger. To great laughter, Taylor’s black head was then nudged out onto the track sporting a sticky, tangled head of platinum blondish-red hair. “Its effect was ludicrous,” joked Charles Sinsabaugh, a preeminent race reporter and the man who named Chicago’s baseball team the Cubs.

  Hundreds of wheelmen had passed through Hearsey’s Bike Shop and fixed their gaze on Taylor’s pint-sized black body, but no one had seen the possibilities that Munger saw. One had to look beyond the small frame, the black skin, and deep into his psyche. Clearly, a fire burned there. That’s why, after spending time with Taylor training and tinkering in his workshop, he offered to hire Taylor away from Hearsey’s. Munger’s “famous” bachelor’s apartment above his warehouse, which was used to entertain countless wheelmen and women, was a disaster—business books, periodicals, and clothing were strewn everywhere. Munger, who employed ninety workers inside a three-story building half the size of a football field, needed a porter, cook, and all-around handyman. Excited about the possibilities, Taylor signed on, agreeing to do various jobs around Munger’s apartment and factory, including, in those days before widespread telephone use, delivering messages.

  Under Munger, a regimented pattern developed. They would wake early, work long, hard days, train until dark, and hit the sack early. Like many teenagers at the time, Taylor probably rolled his bicycle inside at night, washed the wheels, polished the spokes, and fell asleep with its shiny exterior at his feet. With almost a canine loyalty, Taylor committed himself to his sundry new responsibilities as he had all others
. “He was as faithful and conscientious about the servile duties of those days,” a reporter later wrote, “as he is in his training today . . .”

  While Taylor was impressed with Birdie’s knowledge and race stories, what really endeared him to Munger was the patient and kindly intimacy of his friendship—and that he did not care about the color of a man’s skin. “Mr. Munger became closer and closer attached to me as time went on,” he remembered. “Had I been his own son, he could not have acted more kindly toward me.” The sentiment was mutual. “Munger,” recalled a reporter, “took to Taylor as a duck takes to water.”

  On a sweltering August day, Munger gave Taylor his most momentous assignment. The Zig Zag cycling club led by Harry Hearsay, Tom Hay, and Bert Willits had organized an important local race with national significance. They had invited some of the best riders in the country. Munger handed over the name of an acquaintance who had committed to the race and directed Taylor to pick him up at the train station and escort him for the weekend. His hands trembling with emotion, Taylor instantly recognized the name.

  At the train station in the warm Indianapolis summer of 1893, Major Taylor first laid eyes on Arthur Augustus Zimmerman. He was quite a sight for the young boy. Everything about Zimmerman exuded kindness, warmth, and success. Draped over his nearly six-foot-tall frame was a gabardine jacket tailored to his broad chest and shoulders, a crisply laid tie, and a silk pocket square. His Swiss watch was made of real gold, and he sported genuine green snakeskin shoes. As was the style, diamonds glinted from his tie, badge, and as many fingers as taste would allow.

  A ladies’ favorite, Arthur had a hard chin, sagacious eyes, midlength blond hair parted a lick off center, and occasionally a restrained handlebar moustache. In his body language, Zimmie, as his friends called him, spoke with a stutter. He walked with a surprisingly slow and shambling gait. Yet when stationary, he stood straight up military style, no doubt stemming from his days as a military school cadet.

  As a general rule, Zimmerman wouldn’t speak in front of large crowds—at a banquet in his honor, he once famously strayed into the hotel saloon for a cocktail, leaving British dignitaries scrambling onstage. But alone with close friends or admiring fans, he was chatty and spoke with a pleasant South Jersey drawl that blended with his jovial disposition. Unlike many athletes of his era, he was an intellectual; before his racing days, he considered going the way of academia—immersing himself in writing and law school. Yet much to the chagrin of his rivals, he delayed his education, only to become an author later. In the summer of ’93 he was twenty-four, rich, jovial, and chock full of life. He also was the greatest rider the sport had ever seen, and one of the world’s most popular athletes. “We are in favor of Zimmerman for president of the United States,” gloated one reporter. “He would get it if he would only start.”

  On June 11, 1869, in the rapidly growing industrial region of Camden, New Jersey, Arthur was born to Theodore and Anna Zimmerman. After moving to Asbury Park, his parents used their rambunctious boy’s athleticism as a good excuse to boot him out of the house and into military school. There, his natural talents and long legs found him winning running meets. In an era when medals were awarded for the long jump, high jump, and hop, skip, and jump, Zimmerman medaled in all three. Unlike Taylor, who took to two wheels at a very young age, Zimmerman would not discover cycling until he was seventeen years old. But the attraction was instant. “I liked it so well,” he said, “that I jumped into the game with all the spirit that was in me.”

  The elite racing world that Zimmerman plunged into was a colorful one. This was racing in its purest form: raw, unrefined, quick, and often flat-out dangerous. And people could not get enough of it. In cities and burgs up one coast and down the other, hundreds, then thousands, then tens of thousands fought their way into packed bleachers. They spilled onto the infield and cheered their favorites, often at nose-to-nose finishes.

  The sport grew so rapidly, entrepreneurs were unable to build new tracks fast enough, leaving cycling fans temporarily bumping elbows with horse racing fans as they raced around horse tracks before the daily equine matches. But once bike racing crowds began to rival those for horse racing, entrepreneurs jumped into action. Thousands of small ovals built specifically for bike racing sprang up in villages nationwide. Dozens of modern tracks, called velodromes, were erected in larger towns, usually equipped with press boxes, smooth wooden or concrete tracks, concessions stands, training and massage rooms. A third type of track combined the two, with a dirt horse track on the outside and a concrete or wooden bicycle track on the inside.

  While technically considered amateurs before 1893—stars like Zimmerman won hordes of gifts that, when cashed in, may have exceeded earnings of any other athletes, save a few prizefighters and matadors. According to the New York Times, Zimmie’s haul for 1892 included twenty-nine bicycles, several horses and carriages, half a dozen pianos, household furniture of all descriptions, and enough silver plates, medals, and jewelry to stock a jewelry store. All this was augmented by his earnings as the main sponsor of Raleigh bikes, a stack of Raleigh stock shares received at ground floor prices, and royalties from Zimmie shoes, Zimmie toe clips, and Zimmie clothing. In 1893, the first year of America’s massive economic downturn and when other sports were reeling, his earnings were estimated to be well over $10,000.

  The sporting world had never seen anyone quite like Arthur Zimmerman. From the first day he roared around a track, he proved to be a dominating figure, winning fourteen hundred races by the time he retired. He was a spectacular sight for all to see with his muscular body hovering over his bike, his hands grasping the bars, his eyes leveled on the finish line, and his legs spinning like pistons. His form was stealthy, a paragon of balance, agility, and prepotency. “It was as if the man was mounted on rails,” wrote Victor Breyer, a noted cycling journalist, “so complete is the absence of wobbling and the semblance of effort.”

  The press followed his every move. Photographers snapped and sketch artists drew pictures of a calm, cool-looking Zimmerman passing a field of riders in various degrees of agony, their faces and bodies twisting and contorting under the strain. “He at present runs a chance of being pictured more extensively and in more varied styles,” wrote one editor during the ’92 election campaign, “than either of the presidential candidates.”

  Because he trained fewer hours than many of his rivals, Zimmerman was labeled lazy by some sportswriters. In reality he was among the first to employ a more scientific, interval training approach while his rivals, haunted by a fear of losing their jobs, marched through the same rigid daily routine of riding for long hours at the same pace. Unhindered by tradition, superstitions, or old wives’ tales, Zimmerman rode fewer hours but varied his distance and speed. He trained on the road and track, used “Professor Roberts’s dumb-bell drills” for increased explosive power, played basketball and handball, and ran during the offseason. “Perhaps I can stand a little more than my share of rest,” he said coyly when someone questioned him about his brisk workouts. But he was not, nor did he like being called, indolent, as one newspaper that made such a claim found out. “I’ll go down and clean out that office,” he threatened, “if they don’t set me right in the matter.”

  After successfully conquering America, Zimmie shipped overseas with similar effect. In England, where oversized Zimmerman posters hung all over the place, there was talk of a riders’ “strike” because of his dominance. “His path,” complained one scribe, “was littered with the defeat of England’s best men.” In a nation with a rich tradition of athlete prowess, his supremacy caused such a stir that one Brit actually called for a public hearing on the matter. “What happened to our eccentric riders?” she demanded to know. “Why doesn’t she ask Zimmerman?” retorted a London columnist.

  In an era when fouling and rough play happened fairly often, Zimmerman prided himself on good, clean riding, becoming a perfect role model for an aspiring young rider like Taylor.

  Along with hi
s phenomenal racing success came equally remarkable folktales: how he outpaced a speeding train or passed a greyhound at full stride. One story had him defeating the great racehorse Salvator in a man-versus-horse match race, with Zimmerman, of course, riding on an older and slower high-wheel bicycle. The rumor stuck and made for spicy conversation until someone discovered Salvator wasn’t even alive at the time of the alleged race.

  To racing fans, especially young boys who played with toy models of his likeness, Arthur Zimmerman was a godlike figure. He was for the sport of bike racing what James Corbett was for boxing, Salvator was for horse racing, and Cy Young would become for baseball.

  From the outset, Arthur Zimmerman was several tire treads ahead of Birdie Munger and all other wheelmen. With the benefit of more than seven decades watching hundreds of bike racers from all over the world, French journalist Victor Breyer summed up Zimmerman’s talents thus: “He was simply the greatest pedaler of all time.”

  When Taylor arrived at Union Station, he had no difficulty distinguishing Zimmerman from the large group of cyclists, some of whom had come from as far away as South Africa. There was a crush of fans, journalists, and race organizers enveloping him, clamoring for his autograph or a prized interview. Taylor slithered through the crowd while a large brass band filled the air. He slipped past Zimmie’s porter, trainer, manager, and biographer, who had been recording his every feat down to the finest detail. Taylor recognized the affable smile, the fine clothes, and the glittering jewelry from the many pictures that filled the newspapers. Unaware of Zimmerman’s attitude toward blacks, Taylor was excited and fearful as he neared the celebrated white man. He peered nervously up at his towering figure. Their eyes met. Taylor mentioned that Munger had sent him to escort him back to his home. Zimmerman, who despite his fame was surprisingly approachable, extended his white hand. With a warm smile on his face, he shook Taylor’s small, black hand, instantly putting him at ease.